Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Hmm,’ said Selina. ‘Well, you know, I only ever wanted to marry rich, and look how that turned out.’

  There was a short silence. They both stumped up the tiny hill towards Beach Street, the lighthouse looming on their right-hand side.

  Jayden had turned the lights on in the bakery, and Polly gave him a wave.

  ‘Have you got time for that coffee?’ said Selina. ‘I’ve got a new cappuccino machine. It does instant froth.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Polly, glancing at her watch. She ought really to go and help Jayden, but it was so ridiculous that in a few days’ time all this food she’d so lovingly prepared would be reduced to plastic trays of pre-packaged sandwiches, and tightly sealed factory bags of sliced white that would never go off or get hard. She sighed.

  ‘Why not,’ she said.

  ‘Watch the fourth step…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ smiled Polly in the dark stairwell. ‘I know.’

  Neil, as usual, had taken the short way up, simply flying to the windows of the flat. He seemed very at home, probably because he had found it tricky in his little head to really come to terms with the fact that they’d moved.

  Polly looked round the flat, both so familiar and unfamiliar. She felt nostalgic for a period that had barely passed, and had to remind herself that however bad things were at the moment, they had been much, much worse on the cold, blustery morning she’d first arrived.

  ‘Oh, it’s nice,’ she said admiringly, and it was. There were none of the cosy rugs and cushions she had furnished the place with when she had lived there; instead it was stark and white, like an art gallery, with huge arty black-and-white photographs hung on the walls. There was an uncomfortable-looking square black leather sofa with two square armchairs, and a glass coffee table, and no blinds on the windows.

  ‘How are you dealing with… um, the light pollution issue?’ Polly asked carefully.

  ‘You are totally the worst neighbours ever,’ said Selina, firing up a huge and frightening-looking coffee machine, filled with pipes and gauges, which hissed and spat. ‘I wear an airline mask.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Polly, glancing about. ‘Where’s your cat?’

  ‘Lucas? Oh, he’ll be snoozing somewhere on the bed. He’s the laziest animal you can imagine,’ said Selina.

  ‘Cool,’ said Polly, and went over to the window to let Neil in as Selina busied herself with tiny square coffee mugs.

  It all happened extremely fast.

  Polly undid the old-fashioned brass clasp on the window. Overjoyed, Neil flew in to what he considered his own rightful home, and looked around cheerfully, wondering where the snacks were.

  A voice came from the little kitchen.

  ‘Also, I have to tell you, there’s somebody…’

  Polly went to pick up Neil, aware of the fact that there was a cat somewhere in the house, but was suddenly completely and utterly distracted by a man walking out of the bedroom dressed only in a towel – a man, moreover, whom she recognised. It was Dubose, of all people, emerging from the bedroom she used to sleep in. She gasped. And in that instant a flash of tortoiseshell fur bolted into the sitting room. It burst into the air in a huge eruption of sharp white teeth and whiskers, jumping astonishingly high as Polly watched open-mouthed in shock.

  Selina’s cat brought Neil down with one paw, slamming him on to the floor. Its claws raked down his stomach as the puffin fluttered and eeped hysterically, screaming, actually screaming out loud, just as he had done the night the storm had thrown him through the door downstairs.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Polly said, trying to pull the cat off him. Lucas, who already had a mouthful of feathers, fought back, his needle-sharp claws raking bloody lines down her arm.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Selina, rushing over. ‘Lucas, baby. Lucas, darling, get off the nice bird, please.’

  Dubose rushed over to help, his face a mixture of guilt and boldness.

  As Neil opened his mouth to screech once more, Polly summoned all her strength and yanked the yowling cat off him. Sweat was pouring off her as she tried to separate the two animals. Neil attempted to take off, but he was bleeding and didn’t seem to understand why he couldn’t fly. Watching him wobble down to earth like a plane landing in a cross-wind broke Polly’s heart. She fought the base instinct to hurl the cat away with full force; instead, she marched him up to Selina and placed him none too carefully in her arms.

  ‘Can you…’ her voice was coming out high-pitched and hysterical, she knew, ‘can you put your cat away for a moment, please?’

  She realised she was shaking. Selina took Lucas, stroking him.

  ‘There, there, baby,’ she was saying. ‘Calm down.’

  Lucas was spitting fury and trying to wriggle out of her arms to get back to Neil and finish what he’d started.

  ‘I can’t believe you let that bird in here,’ said Selina in an accusing tone.

  ‘What are you talking about? You told me you had the gentlest fricking cat on earth,’ said Polly, her voice tight with panic as she collapsed next to Neil. ‘And why the hell is HE…’

  But any thought of Dubose left her mind immediately as she knelt next to the little puffin. Neil was bleeding; his thick black feathers were torn. She could feel his heart beating incredibly quickly through his chest.

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘I have to get to Patrick. Sssh. Sssh.’

  She took off her cardigan and wrapped it carefully around the little bird, who was whimpering; a horrible noise. Then she got up slowly from the floor. Selina was attempting to hold a still maniacal Lucas in her arms, Dubose standing silently beside her. Polly was forever glad later that she was too upset to speak, because anything she would have said she would never have been able to take back. She simply pushed past them both and ran down the stairs with Neil in her arms.

  ‘Hey,’ said Jayden, coming out to polish the door handles as she shot past. ‘What’s up?’

  But Polly was running faster than she’d ever run in her life, straight along Beach Street, past the fishermen, who hailed her too, Archie standing up when he saw the look on her face, and past Muriel’s shop. This early in the morning, before the causeway opened and the day trippers arrived, Mount Polbearne was quiet and sleepy, and it was extremely unusual to see someone run.

  Patrick was in early checking out a dog for worms – not exactly a difficult diagnosis, he had concluded, from the way the animal had dragged itself into the surgery on its bum. He’d need to disinfect the entire area again later. It was tricky being a single-handed practice sometimes.

  His door was flung open with surprising violence, banging against the far wall. Old Mr Arnold jumped in alarm. Mifty saw his chance and wriggled his bum on the table again.

  ‘Stop it, Mifty,’ said Patrick, looking up. He froze when he saw Polly’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, but he hardly had to ask. ‘Is it Neil?’

  Polly nodded, trembling and wordless, offering the bloodstained cardigan. Neil’s breaths were shallow and his eyes were closed.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Patrick. He turned to the old man.

  ‘Can I just move Mifty for now?’ he said. ‘I’ll fix his prescription later.’

  ‘Is that that little bird from the bakery?’ said Mr Arnold. ‘Oh dearie me now.’

  Patrick hastily scrubbed down the table and washed his hands.

  ‘Put him here,’ he said.

  Polly couldn’t bear to place him down; she was numb with shock. Patrick had to move forward and gently prise Neil out of her stiff hands.

  The little bird looked tiny on the large table. There was a long rip in his side, and his head was nodding in and out.

  ‘Oh dear me, dear me,’ Mr Arnold was still muttering in the corner.

  Polly found her voice, although it came out as a high-pitched squeak.

  ‘Fix him,’ she managed. ‘Fix him, please. Fix him now.’

  Patrick rubbed the top of his bald head.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll need you to ho
ld him.’

  He took down a book from the shelf.

  ‘Why are you reading?’ said Polly, her face completely white. ‘Don’t read now. Fix him.’ She went to pick Neil up again.

  ‘Hush,’ said Patrick, quite sternly. ‘Don’t touch him, please. I’m double-checking the dosage. I don’t anaesthetise birds very often; I don’t want to get it wrong. If you wouldn’t mind standing to one side for now, that will be quite the best way to help Neil.’

  Polly swallowed, her hands gripping the chair in front of her – the nearest thing she could find – so hard her knuckles went white.

  ‘It’s very dangerous to anaesthetise a bird,’ he went on. ‘Especially when they’re in shock. If it wasn’t Neil, I would say let him go.’

  Polly swallowed hard.

  ‘Has he eaten in the last two hours? Well that’s a stupid question. Of course he has.’

  Patrick rummaged about in a drawer and took out a large plastic-wrapped contraption that looked like a toilet plunger.

  ‘We usually use these on very large dogs,’ he said, glancing at Neil nervously. ‘That beak of his gets in the way a little. Okay.’

  He attached the tube that ran from the gas mask to a canister marked Isoflurane in Oxygen, and very carefully attached the mask over Neil’s head. The little bird panicked at first, then, as Polly went forward and rubbed his neck, gradually relaxed and closed his eyes.

  ‘Fine,’ said Patrick. ‘Stand back, please.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Was it a cat?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Those damned things,’ Patrick muttered to himself. ‘They’re a bloody hazard. I did warn you.’

  His face was serious as he bent down to take a closer look at Neil’s injuries. Polly stood back.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to call, love?’ said Mr Arnold. Polly immediately wanted Huckle’s arms around her, but she couldn’t speak, not yet. She shook her head numbly. No. She couldn’t bear it; couldn’t speak to anyone until she knew. Neil had been knocked out by the anaesthetic, but all Polly could think was that he looked like he was dead.

  Mr Arnold (and Mifty, squirming frantically) stayed by Polly’s side throughout the operation, the old man’s hand gentle on her shoulder. Patrick donned a pair of huge magnifying glasses that made his eyes look very strange, and bent to his work.

  He plucked away all the feathers over the main site of the wound and gently swabbed away the blood. There seemed an awful lot of it for such a tiny creature. There were three great raked tears through Neil’s stomach; one per claw, sharp as needles, which had slit through him like a knife through butter. Polly couldn’t look and turned away.

  Patrick felt around deftly.

  ‘I think you’ve been lucky,’ he said. ‘It seems to have missed the vital organs.’

  Polly looked up, her eyes full of hope, but Patrick’s face was still grave.

  ‘I can stitch him, Polly, and put him on antibiotics… but with this kind of thing, it’s not the injury, it’s the shock. The anaesthetic and the shock…’

  He cleaned up some more, filled the wounds with powder, then started to stitch, his hands surprisingly nimble for a middle-aged man. Polly watched, holding her breath.

  Time seemed to stretch on for ever, shadows passing by the low window of the surgery, a door opening here and there, a particularly strong gust of wind making the ancient windowsill tremble a little. Polly stayed rooted to the spot, unable to move in case something she did or said made a difference.

  Finally Patrick stood back. He gave Neil two injections of antibiotics under the skin of his stomach, then he stroked the little bird on the tummy and looked around.

  ‘He needs to be kept warm,’ he said. ‘I need a blanket.’

  ‘I’ve got Mifty’s outside,’ volunteered Mr Arnold.

  ‘I don’t think worms are exactly what this little fellow needs right at the moment,’ said Patrick.

  Polly handed over her bloodied cardigan and Patrick wrapped the still comatose Neil up in it. When he handed him to Polly, she let out a muffled sob. He felt so light and fragile in her arms.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Arnold,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll write up Mifty’s prescription and drop it off on the way home, okay?’

  Mr Arnold nodded. ‘Right enough,’ he said. Then he doffed his cap to Polly. ‘Good luck with Neil, miss. It’s always nice seeing him about the place.’

  The old man and his wriggling dog left the surgery, and Patrick watched them go, then set about disinfecting the entire room. He glanced at her, and Polly saw to her horror that he was cross with her.

  ‘I told you,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you not to keep him. He’s a bird, he’s not a pet. He’s not domesticated.’

  ‘I sent him away,’ said Polly. ‘He came back.’

  ‘Well he shouldn’t have done,’ said Patrick, his anxiety for the little animal turning into anger as he spoke. ‘You’ve raised that bird to think that everyone in the world is his friend; that anything he ever meets is going to give him a snack. I had to stitch through an extra layer of fat, by the way, which is difficult to do.’

  Tears rolled down Polly’s cheeks.

  ‘So when he meets something like that bastard cat, he hasn’t a clue what to do, has he? He’s completely overwhelmed. Not a clue. Do you think that cat would attack a flock of puffins?’

  ‘That cat is a fucking psycho,’ muttered Polly.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ went on Patrick remorselessly. ‘Because flocking birds have excellent defence mechanisms against cats, which involve flying away from predators, not waddling over to see if they’ve got any treats.’

  Polly went bright red and stared at the floor.

  Patrick realised his fear had made him sound gruff, and he stretched out a hand to the little bird.

  ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you to nurse him carefully,’ he said, his tone conciliatory.

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘And I’ll report the cat to the police,’ she said.

  Patrick looked at her.

  ‘The cat police?’

  ‘Cats can’t go around attacking whatever they like! It’s… it’s naughty!’

  ‘Well, spoiled fat puffins shouldn’t make themselves such delicious, tempting targets,’ pointed out Patrick, regretting it instantly when his words brought on a fierce storm of sobbing.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to be so hard on you there. I realise Neil… I realise the puffin you insist on keeping gave you a terrible fright. But it was entirely preventable.’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly, taking the Kleenex he passed her from the box on his desk. ‘I know. I know.’

  She hugged Neil a little tighter, lifting his tiny body up so she could hear him breathe.

  ‘We’ll keep him here until he comes round,’ said Patrick. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘And I have to phone Huckle,’ she whispered.

  The motorbike was noisier than ever on the cobbles as Huckle made it back from the old honey cottage in double-quick time. Thankfully the causeway was open, or he’d have swum across. He left the bike in the middle of the cobbled street and charged in.

  ‘Is he all right?’ His normally tanned face was white.

  Polly held up the little bundle.

  ‘We’re just waiting for him to come round.’

  Huckle moved across the room, as ever looking slightly too big for the furniture.

  ‘Hey, Neil, hey, little buddy. What happened to you, hey?’

  Suddenly the little bird’s eyes fluttered very briefly, and his beak moved from side to side.

  ‘He can hear me!’ said Huckle joyfully. ‘Hey, buddy! You need to get well so you can go in the sidecar again. He loves the sidecar,’ he added to Patrick. ‘He sticks his head out so he can feel the wind in his hair. Feathers.’

  Patrick gave Polly a meaningful look.

  ‘Is he all right?’ she said, as the little bird stirred i
n her arms. ‘Is he okay? Is he in pain?’

  As if in answer to her questions, Neil threw up all over her trousers.

  ‘Yay!’ said Huckle. ‘Neil is great at being sick! That’s my boy.’